Murder in Hyde Park Page 8

  Ambrosia was already seated at her usual place at the long, glossy wooden table, just to the right of Ginger, who sat at one end. Basil, when he was present, claimed the other. It pleased Ginger to see that Felicia had found her way back from Feathers & Flair and that Scout had quickly joined her, washed, and was sitting immediately to her left.

  “Good evening,” Ginger said. “I hope you’ve all had a pleasant day.”

  “It was fine enough,” Ambrosia grumbled.

  “Once Millie left for home,” Felicia said, “things grew rather boring at the shop, so I saw no reason for me to stay there any longer. I spent a couple of hours at the investigative office working on my book instead.”

  Ginger noted that Felicia’s usual sparkly good humour had yet to return and surmised that she hadn’t heard from Charles. Or perhaps she had, and the news wasn’t to her liking. She’d have to ask her about it once Scout and Ambrosia had left the table.

  “Anything of interest happen while there?” Ginger asked.

  Felicia shook her head. “Not to speak of.”

  Lizzie and Langley entered with trays of delicious-smelling dishes of roast beef and baked parsnips.

  After a short word of thanks to the good Lord above, they greedily dug in.

  Scout asked for gravy, then added, “When is Dad coming home?”

  Ginger loved that Scout called Basil “Dad.” There had been a day when he would have run and hidden from Basil simply because he was in law enforcement.

  “I’m not sure,” Ginger answered.

  “He promised to take me to the tennis game tomorrow,” Scott said.

  “If for some reason he can’t make it,” Ginger replied, “I’ll take you myself. In fact—” Thinking about Nellie Booth and how she’d like to interview the distraught athlete again, Ginger continued, “I’ll come either way.”

  Unusually quiet, Ambrosia nibbled like a bird picking at a plum. On most days, she was ripe with opinionated pieces drawn from reading the newspapers or observing the family members’ personal lives.

  “Did the cat get your tongue, Grandmother?” Ginger asked her lightly.

  Ambrosia settled her wide, heavy-lidded eyes on her. “What on earth does that mean?”

  “You seem quieter than usual, that’s all.”

  Ambrosia harrumphed. “Felicia, have you heard from Charles? When is he to return?”

  Felicia frowned. “No, Grandmama. He’s rather secretive when it comes to his life in France.” Unexpectedly, Felicia burst into tears. “I fear he has a—” She glanced at Scout, who fortunately was busy sneaking bits of meat to Boss, who waited patiently at his feet. Felicia continued in a whisper. “An assignation. Some French hussy, I expect.”

  “Surely not!” Ambrosia sputtered.

  Ginger couldn’t venture an opinion. Many soldiers had appeased their loneliness by engaging French women who took advantage of an opportunity to make money. Times had been hard, and Ginger didn’t judge the women for doing what they thought they had to do to survive. It was quite likely that some real, long-lasting romances had developed during that time, and it was well documented that more than one British soldier had become a father to French children. Some maintained two families, one secret under the guise of business travels abroad.

  Ginger smiled apologetically. “Felicia, love, I’m certain Charles has a perfectly honourable reason for travelling. A business venture, if I’m not mistaken.”

  Felicia pouted, “But why not ask me along?”

  “Perhaps to preserve your reputation,” Ambrosia said. “It’s unseemly for a single lady to travel alone with a single gentleman, even if you should take Langley or Lizzie with you.”

  “May I leave the table, Mum?” Scout asked.

  Ginger smirked. The conversation around the table by the Gold ladies must be mind-numbing for a child his age. Soon, though, the world of feminine intrigue would be all-consuming to him, and Ginger relished these short years yet left before young-manhood struck.

  “You’ve finished eating?” she asked. His plate was wiped clean, but he had been known to ask for seconds, occasionally.

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Very well. Take Boss with you.”

  Scout happily strolled away, calling Boss to join him at his heel.

  Felicia, apparently ready to change the conversation, turned to Ginger. “Did you find Alice White?”

  Ginger had mentioned her intention before leaving her shop. She’d found it prudent to let another know where she was going, especially during a murder investigation, if things went awry and she needed looking for. “I did. I’m afraid she wasn’t very forthcoming.”

  With her mind back on the case, Ginger looked to Ambrosia. “Have you heard anything from your friend the Duchess of Worthington?”

  Ambrosia snorted. “She’s hardly my friend. Not even an acquaintance.”

  “She seems to think otherwise.”

  “She’s confusing childhood nostalgia with friendship.”

  Ginger considered her grandmother-in-law. Though the Dowager Lady Gold liked to keep up appearances of social prestige, Ginger knew that the elderly lady had, in many ways, had a hard life. She’d lost her husband, then son and daughter-in-law, which made her the sole guardian of her grandchildren. And she’d almost lost Bray Manor, the family home in Chesterton. In fact, the Gold fortune had been in dire straits. If not for Ginger’s marriage arrangement—she was then a Hartigan, from a wealthy Bostonian family—with Ambrosia’s grandson Daniel, Ambrosia might’ve lost it all.

  Ginger’s curiosity about Ambrosia’s hostility toward a childhood friend was piqued. “Normally, I wouldn’t pry,” Ginger said, “but the Duchess is related to the victim, Miss Cummings. Is there anything you can tell me about the Duchess that might help?”

  Ambrosia raised a grey brow. “Cummings? Oh, that’s right. I do recall that Deborah’s sister Mary Ann Harvey—that was their maiden name—her daughter married a man by the name of Cummings.”

  “I find it highly coincidental that the Duchess’ return to London after many years away would coincide with the purposeful death of her great-niece,” Ginger said. “And that she just happened to be at the same event.”

  “I wouldn’t trust Deborah as far as I could throw her,” Ambrosia said, “but I’d hardly think she’d kill her great-niece. Whatever for? She has the world by the tail as it is. Besides, she wouldn’t risk the notoriety should she be found out, much less the noose.”

  Ginger knew Ambrosia had failed to name the reason for her falling-out with her old friend. “I’m sure it’s a long shot,” she said, “but I must follow the evidence, no matter where it leads.”

  The swinging open of the dining-room door grabbed their attention.

  “Hello, love,” Ginger said as Basil stepped into the room. “So good that you could join us, if a tad late.”

  “Hello, ladies.” Basil took his seat at the opposite end of the table.

  Ginger rang for Lizzie, and the maid arranged for hot food to be brought.

  “So, what did I miss?” Basil asked.

  Ginger decided to hold off sharing the details of her morning enquiries until she and Basil were alone. She expected Basil would do the same for her.

  “Not much, love,” she said. “Any news on your end that you can share?”

  “Only that the inquest date has been set for two days from now. You and Felicia shall be called to testify, of course.”

  “Oh blast!” Felicia said. “I do detest inquests.”

  “I find them rather interesting,” Ginger said.

  Felicia sniffed. “I find them morbid.”

  Ginger smiled at her disgruntled sister-in-law. “At any rate, we must both oblige the law,” she said. And she hoped the event would shed light on who had murdered Irene Cummings and why.

  16

  On Monday, the tennis matches were in full swing when Ginger, Basil, and Scout arrived at the tennis club. Finding seats near the front, Ginger was glad she’d remembered t
o bring her parasol, for the sun was high and hot. Even with her shaded spot, she felt herself on the verge of perspiring. As it was, her growing child within made Ginger more susceptible to warmth, and she had to use a handkerchief to mop her brow.

  “Are you all right, love?” Basil asked.

  “I’m fine,” Ginger said. “I seem less able to tolerate the heat than when I was younger.”

  Ginger was only thirty-three, not nearly approaching midlife. And many women gave birth in their thirties—but not for the first time. In that respect, Ginger was an anomaly. Having conceived at this point in her life was a surprise as Ginger had attempted a family with her first husband to no avail. No effort had been made with Basil to prevent one, yet many months had passed since their wedding night.

  The baby was a blessing—just as Ginger had been to her parents. However, her mother, also having conceived late in life, had died shortly after Ginger was born. Ginger shuddered at the thought. Would she be strong enough to survive this birth? Matilda had reassured her that medicine had come a long way since 1893.

  A men’s singles game was in play. Scout pointed. “Douglas Boyd and Robert Armstrong.”

  Both men were fit and energetic and looked dapper in their tennis outfits of white cotton trousers and white short-sleeved shirts.

  The match ended three sets to love, with Douglas Boyd winning. Robert Armstrong threw his racquet onto the ground near his coach’s feet, and Ginger frowned at the display of poor sportsmanship.

  A women’s singles match came next, and Ginger squinted as the athletes came onto the court, dressed in what looked like Patou sportswear with long pleated shirts and matching long-sleeved white blouses. The dark-haired player looked familiar.

  “Is that Nellie Booth?” she asked.

  Basil stared at the woman. “It appears so.”

  “She’s not leaving herself much time to mourn,” Ginger said. “Perhaps she shed all of her tears last night.”

  “It’s an important game, Mum,” Scout said. “The winner moves up the ranking. Perhaps even plays at Wimbledon next year.”

  “Is that so? Was Miss Cummings supposed to play?”

  Scout shrugged and slipped into his lazy street dialect. “Dunno.”

  Basil checked the programme they had been given when they arrived. “It appears that Miss Booth was meant to play against Miss Cummings. Someone had the task of scratching her name out of all the programmes and adding a substitute.”

  “Who would that be?” Ginger asked.

  “A Miss Ryerson.”

  “She’s not as good as Miss Cummings,” Scout said.

  Ginger gazed at her son. “How do you know?”

  “I’ve seen her play, and she’s got a lower overall ranking.”

  Basil read the back of the programme. “The rankings are listed here. Scout’s right.”

  “So,” Ginger mused, “with Miss Cummings out, Miss Booth has a better chance of climbing to the top.”

  “Indeed,” Basil said, “but highly circumstantial.”

  “I wonder if Mr. Armstrong cried all his tears out last night too,” Scout said.

  Ginger’s attention snapped to her son. “What do you mean?”

  “Mr. Armstrong was sweet on Miss Cummings. I heard a couple of ladies talk about it.” He curled a lip. “Waste of time, if you ask me. Who cares about romance?”

  Ginger’s attention moved between Miss Booth and Miss Ryerson, Miss Booth clearly with the upper hand, and a moody Robert Armstrong watching from the sidelines.

  “I’m going to stretch my legs,” Ginger said. The discomfort of the hard chairs had convinced her to stand. “I won’t be gone long.”

  Basil, ever the gentleman, helped her to her feet. “I’d like to hear what he has to say as well,” he whispered,

  Oh, how well her husband knew her!

  Ginger meandered around the circumference of the court until she reached the area where Mr. Armstrong sat. “Exciting game, isn’t it?” she said casually.

  Mr. Armstrong did a double take when he turned to her. Ginger was used to receiving the admiration of the opposite sex and offered a dazzling smile, pushed a lock of her red bob behind one ear, and blinked her eyelashes. Once again, she was glad that the fashion of the day did wonders for hiding a growing stomach, though Ginger had started holding her handbag in front of her as extra concealment.

  Her friendly nature was rewarded, and Mr. Armstrong, running a hand over his glossy hair, flashed a smile in return. “In a word,” he said.

  “So sad about Miss Cummings,” Ginger remarked. “I understand she was meant to play this game with Miss Booth.”

  “And a far more exciting game it would’ve been. Such a terrible loss for the tennis world.”

  Not exactly the reaction of a broken-hearted boyfriend.

  “Aren’t you Robert Armstrong?” Ginger gushed. “I’ve seen your photograph in the newspaper!”

  Mr. Armstrong smiled crookedly as if he were doing his best to look self-effacing. “Yes, that’s me.”

  Pressing a finger of her gloved hand to her lips, Ginger spoke conspiratorially, “Weren’t you and Miss Cummings courting?”

  “Well, at one time. But it had gone cold. Still, I didn’t wish her any harm. And if I find out who hurt her . . .” He pushed his palm with a fist. “. . . He’ll be sorry!”

  Ginger hummed and turned her eyes back to the game in time to see Nellie Booth nail an overarm shot and score. The crowd applauded politely.

  Mr. Armstrong cleared his throat. “I didn’t catch your name, miss?”

  Ginger smiled and extended her gloved hand. “Mrs. Reed. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  As expected, Mr. Armstrong’s eyes flashed briefly with disappointment, but he recovered quickly. “Do enjoy the rest of the game, Mrs. Reed.”

  “I will. Thank you.”

  Ginger wandered back to her seat between Basil and Scout.

  “How was your walkabout, love?” Basil asked, his green-brown eyes staring at her pointedly.

  Ginger hadn’t yet revealed that she was working for Miss Chanel and would wait until they had a private moment later that night to do so. But Basil was also working on the case, and it behoved her to share her findings.

  “Mr. Armstrong admitted to a relationship with Miss Cummings but said it had grown cold.”

  “Is that so?” Basil said.

  “Unfortunately, we can’t get Miss Cummings’ perspective. What if she wanted more? Perhaps marriage? Did she have leverage that could ruin Mr. Armstrong’s career?”

  “If so,” Basil said, “that would be motive. I’ll have my men investigate Mr. Armstrong’s background and financial history.”

  As Ginger guessed, and a myriad of sports gamblers had probably bet, Nellie Booth won her game. She effortlessly sprang across the court like a gazelle in a meadow, her toothy smile bright in the afternoon sun. To Ginger’s surprise, Nellie Booth headed directly for Robert Armstrong, who gave her a friendly handshake. Miss Booth beamed up at him with a look that said she’d like to be more than friendly.

  If they weren’t already.

  Unlike Mr. Armstrong, Miss Ryerson took her loss with grace, and after shaking hands with Miss Booth, had returned to her coach with her chin held high.

  “Is that it?” Ginger asked.

  Basil referred to the programme, but Scout answered. “It’s the last game today. Might I come again tomorrow?”

  Ginger glanced at Basil. She knew that he was taking time off work and that Superintendent Morris would frown deeply should it happen again tomorrow. She felt rather wilted from the heat and didn’t relish repeating the sequence tomorrow.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “if Mr. Fuller is willing to escort you. Your father and I have work to do.”

  The offer seemed to appease Scout as it was likely his tutor would be up to the task.

  Ginger had just taken Basil’s arm as he assisted her from her seat when a shriek cut through the normal chatter, followed by a corpora
te gasp and sharp questioning.

  Miss Booth was on the ground.

  Had she fainted? Or worse.

  “I have to run over there,” Basil said. Ginger nodded, watching him go. She took Scout’s hand. “We must follow.”

  “What happened to her, Mum?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps the heat was too much, and she simply fainted.” Ginger hoped that was the case, but her instinct told her it was something more nefarious.

  “Excuse me,” she said when she reached the crowd now huddled around Nellie Booth’s prone form. “I’m with the police.”

  That wasn’t technically true, but she was with Basil, a chief inspector. When she made it to the inner circle, she groaned. Nellie Booth’s lips were blue.

  A nurse had her fingers to Miss Booth’s neck. She wrinkled her nose. “I think there’s a pulse.”

  A doctor pushed through, his stethoscope at the ready. “She’s alive, but her pulse is very weak. She must be hospitalised immediately.”

  Before long, an ambulance arrived, and a stretcher was carried towards Miss Booth’s body. Ginger noticed Mr. Armstrong watching from a distance, looking if Ginger had to call it, rather bored. Two female tennis players, romantically attached to Mr. Armstrong, had been brought down—one was dead, one nearly dead.

  Ginger scowled in the man’s direction. She didn’t believe in coincidence that much.

  Basil drew closer. “Perhaps you should accompany Scout home?”

  Ginger agreed that removing Scout from a disturbing incident involving someone he admired was the responsible thing to do. She took Scout by the hand and hired a taxicab to drive them back to Hartigan House.

  “Is she going to be all right, Mummy?”

  Ginger gazed at her son with compassion. When she and Scout were first acquainted, and later when he’d become her ward, he’d called her “Missus”. Once she’d decided that her heart demanded more from the child and had decided to adopt, she asked that he call her “Mum”, which, over time, he’d learned to do.